Confabulations
by Riaeth
Summary: To confabulate, to carry out a short chat. Now, before the thirteen days conclude, thirteen studies of eight characters and their conversations.
1. Confabulations

_Author Note: Here, we have the beginning of the end; a short series of conversations and studies of a handful of characters chosen as inspiration allowed. Each was written at various times during the past year; some are recent, while others are a few months old at least._

_This chapter was written sometime in late September._

* * *

The new tale of the Crystal, where the pages of histories played on each other, making histories anew; shining defiance in the face of destiny, with the knowledge that while some things are solid as the Crystals themselves, change can be found in the slightest of winds.

Confabulation; secondly, to replace fact with fantasy in the annals of the mind. If we weren't guilty of this, life would have been more pleasurable before, and comfortable now.

Catharsis; an emotional purging. I spent my youth in such an art, and I lost her at some point. She found that damnable man, and was spirited from me again, so I walk that lonesome path yet another day, searching for the face I tore away so long past.

We were all looking for something different initially, but in the end it was the same:

Snow, for freedom.

Vanille, for forgiveness.

Sazh, for penance.

Hope, for truth.

Fang, for friendship.

And myself, for love.

In the end, we were all the same.


	2. Snow

_A/N: Written 2 November, 2009_

* * *

She looks so much like Serah; that was why. That was why he crept through the hall, praying Hope wouldn't follow him as he slunk to the shower.

If he did, Snow hoped more than the former that the boy would have enough sense not to inquire as to why he was taking another shower; in fact, his third in the last day and a half.

Hope would question, with the simplest answer ringing truest: he was abominable, sick and flithy, needing desperately to be clean. His heart belonged to Serah; there wasn't a reason for this. No, definitely not.

But Serah was gone, a fact mind, body and soul lacked comprehension of.

So Snow fluttered through corridors, powerless to the avarice of his own intolerable being. Were Lightning to hear of this, she would undoubtedly slaughter him in repulsion.

Cranking open rusted faucets, pouring burning water over his trembling figure, Snow mused on the benefits of such exoneration.


	3. Focus

_A/N: This originally wasn't going to be part of "Confabulations", so much so that I forgot it existed. The part it replaces, even unfinished, is in my opinion better than this, but undone._

_Written 26 August, 2009_

* * *

What is a Focus?

This intangible idea that drives us all, yet can it ever be realised?

How can we complete a mission we don't understand? Focus, a force that propels us, a curse that gives purpose to the lost.

Is a Focus so complex, or something so basic, so simple that we're to die for overlooking it?

Could a Focus be as we think, a superhuman feat to be accomplished; or, could it be living itself, something so ambiguous that no matter our travail, we are doomed to fail? Could a Focus be simply living; for being is the only thing so vaguely defined from the start.

Why, then, would there be l'Cie? Are we examples for the rest of the world, or circumstantial collateral damage?

Can the answer be had only at becoming terror itself? Are we l'Cie to be the enlightened, or the damned?


	4. Vanille

_A/N: Written 16 November, and rewritten 9 December, 2009_

* * *

Oerba dia Vanille was, in spite of her endearing "sugar and rainbows" demeanour, formidable in the extreme. She was, in all reality, as dangerous as the fire matching her hair.

Oerba yun Fang certainly seemed her polar opposite in her sardonic and cool actions alongside a sharp, amused tongue.

The pair had been fair acquaintances before their 'trip' to Boudam; being in such a crowded and alien place brought them closer together.

Still, Fang felt there was something indescribable lurking within Vanille, though she couldn't find the words to tell her so. Reserved, nervous rumors had slunk through their home regarding her; she was painted a slaughterer of beasts, and Fang admitted this managed to disturb her, for somewhere, a part of her believed it.

The optimism and smiles certainly were an act, she decided; Vanille was simmering inside, dying to repent for some crime committed Lightning and the whole lot were unaware of (and, she mused, may even be a part of.) After all, she never looked Lightning in the eye since Serah died.

Yes, her façade wore thin, even in her own heart.


	5. Games

_A/N: Written between 27 October and 1 November_

* * *

Yaag Rosch was second best. Always the right hand, never the head. Sitting alone in his shuttle, he would think with scorn as to why this was so. Did he not love Cocoon more than any other? Every fibre of his being was consumed in fervent loyalty and service to the undying fal'Cie and their paradise.

He recalled his first few months in the academy; a time of burning muscles and sleepless night flooded his vexed mind, of exhausted morning hours rereading the same texts of strategy and classical prose. His family, mentors and superiors, all had faith in his impending success.

Jihl Nabaat, however, didn't need something so simple as faith to aid her through; not when sheer will sufficed.

The travails that devoured him were worthless at the sight of her; shortly after she arrived, Yaag the Labourer died, and reborn from his ashes came Yaag the Irate (though some would say Terrible). He took to abusing his underlings in any fashion for every reason under the fal'Cie; and Jihl noticed it, with each pleased smirk that snaked across her brilliant, horrific face. She noticed him; by immaculate chance, suddenly he found himself working for her.

Blessing soon found itself a curse; none were so heartless, so wanton as Jihl Nabaat. And none were so degraded as Yaag Rosch.

The abuse, the games took their toll, and one cold day in Eden, he found himself slip forever from the realm of sanity; forever, he would bear the mark of punishment across his face.

Time would see him forget who had been the hand of justice then, though the harrowing smile and evil eye that followed him through halls and alleys would hold it always.


	6. Sazh

_A/N: This is the latest chapter added to the roster; Sazh didn't make it at first because I wasn't sure I could see his character justice, and honestly, I don't think this did. After reading his part of the web novella, however, I decided he needed to be in here in some fashion._

_Written 3 December, 2009. _

* * *

Sazh had never been too much of a "family man" before his wife died; he wasn't coldly unaware of his family, absorbed in his work like Mr. Estheim (certainly not to that extent), but he wasn't a part of their lives as he should've been.

As he should have been; the thought never repeated itself more than in the days he wandered Pulse. Here, so estranged from everything he once held dear, he truly began to doubt the possibility of seeing Dajh again.

How could there be any hope of even entertaining the idea when this place, built on despair and suffering, was so vast?


	7. Power

_A/N: Began 11 November, and completed 18 November._

* * *

Jihl Nabaat knew the world perceived her as heartless; she never denied the idea, though never affirmed it, either. Not in mere words, at least.

How could the world blame her for curing its ills? The l'Cie were indubitable scourge; force becomes a necessary element in scrubbing such things away. If subordinates disagreed with her methods, they were nothing save underlings, and could easily be dismissed. Or erased.

There were many, she knew, who thought she was more than simply unorthodox, but altogether insane; each time she caught ear of such chatter, Jihl found herself smiling. Something in the mere idea of insanity amused her; perhaps the fact that this was closer to the truth than they imagined.

Sanctum asked much from their faithful servants; for far too long they've been in debt. It was not for these greedy men that Jihl Nabaat was so monstrous, so unscrupulous.

The future belongs not to those who wait.


	8. Hope

_A/N: This chapter had a bit of a journey to reach this point; some of the original became part of a different chapter entirely, as it didn't seem to fit what I was going for here._

_Began on 20 November, tabled until 1 December, and finally completed on 6 December, this is the second happiest chapter._

* * *

In spite of bright lights and fanciful splendor, Nautilus Park failed to meliorate the moods of six l'Cie who found themselves wandering its colourful paths.

Hope recalled that when he was younger, he dreamed of vacationing here with his mother; the magical eccentricity of the entire place seemed too compatible with her. Though he stared in awe of displays before him, Hope felt that the park was instead artificial; now he understood her decision to spend time in Boudam instead.

Somehow, he managed to weasel away from Vanille's arm and Lightning's watchful eye; free to do so, Hope wandered aimlessly. Soon he found himself at a balloon cart laden with knickknacks and cheap trinkets; automatically, he chose and paid for a miniature Chocobo figurine.

Home in Palompolum, he had an entire shelf cramped full of these, collected religiously in Kai and Elida's company. He hadn't seen either in years, yet here he walked, a similar souvenir in hand as cheerful as the city itself.

The last time he spent the day surrounded by his old friends, they lacked the desire to do anything. Hal and Elida had cried, Kai shifted uncomfortably, and Hope looked to the ground; though none voiced it, they all seemed to understand they'd never meet again.

Finally, when the silence became too much to bear, Hope rose and crossed the room, stopping before the Chocobo collection. Pausing, he surveyed the group, searching for a certain few; he chose them carefully, carrying them back to his friends with a grin.

Always, the three of them had eyed a particular Chocobo; still, when Hope sat down again and handed each their figurine, all three looked surprised. They had worked so hard to find each one, yet how could he part so easily from any of them?

"Simple," Hope had replied. "Because it's easier to lose a couple of figurines than it is you guys."

Hope gripped the bag tighter; he hadn't heard from any of them since then, and things headed as they were, it was unlikely he ever would.

Suddenly, he felt an immense urge to dispose of the figure; he had to think of something else. Lightning came to mind in a fleeting moment of amelioration.

They weren't entirely different, he and Lightning. Both really were, in spite of constant companions, alone in life. Of course, Lightning would never say anything about that sort of thing to him of all people.

He wondered what she was doing right now, if she was enjoying herself for just a short while; was it possible to forget, even for a moment, the fate that waited for each of them?

Plunging his hand into the bag, Hope pulled out the little Chocobo; it was detailed, amazingly so for such a small toy. Standing out above all its features, however, the Chocobo's pair of jolly, vivacious eyes shone in the light.

Hope couldn't help but smile at the sight.


	9. Generosity

_A/N: Written 15 November, 2009. _

_This is both the longest and happiest chapter of all._

* * *

Lightning worried when she was ill; a delirious, fevered worry that wasn't worth the effort given it. Perhaps her mind, amidst the panic, was aware this would be the only time allowed to do so.

Baseless troubles fluttered through her thoughts at supersonic speeds: how would Serah get by while she was infirm? Who would collect the weekly cheque if she were so incapacitated? More importantly, would there even be such a cheque this week if she lay in bed for most of it?

A cooler mind would be aware of the answer, that Major Amoda would apply all his power to prevent ruin to befall the Farrons. Even the most novice of recruits to the security force could see the man had an affinity for his stalwart sergeant, and was willing to work day and night to provide her haven from the inconvenient parts of the world, as unprofessional as such actions would seem.

Still, a fervid mind will rave as it pleases, and an unconscious Lightning would subconsciously worry.

Return now to Major Amoda; when she was well and off-duty, Lightning sometimes found herself thinking on her superior. While his gregarious and friendly, joking disposition occasionally flooded over the top, he really was a genuine person; Lightning realised once (almost startling herself) that he was the first person aside Serah of whom she enjoyed company.

Serah herself was well aware of her sister's almost unwitting acceptance of the Major. She let slip to Snow one evening as they walked along the beach on a rainy night not a year ago, when she and Lightning had finally managed to have time together. The time had been enjoyable, but altogether uncomfortably quiet, and as that fact silently passed between the sisters, there had been an abrupt knock at the door. Lightning rose to answer it, and had been visibly surprised at the sight before her.

"Good evening, Sergeant Farron," a drenched Amoda had called out, playful grin plastered across his face.

Lightning stood reticently in the threshold, wondering what business her commanding officer had at her home on a night like this. In typical fashion, Amoda wouldn't let that slide. "Aren't you going to invite me in? It's a bit damp out here tonight, wouldn't you say?"

Lightning quickly obliged, apologsing for forgetting her manners (doing so with a bit of a pink face, Serah was careful to add!)

As he walked through the doorway, Amoda suddenly wasn't alone; he bore a generously sized parcel, which upon sitting down he carefully lay in his lap.

"You're soaked, sir. Let me get you some tea," Lightning said, heading to the kitchen; Serah cut her off.

"No, let me get it!"

Not questioning her sister, Lightning allowed it and crossed the floor, sitting in a chair askance from Amoda.

As Serah left, Amoda cleared his throat and fiddled with a string on the box before him.

"You know," he began, "it was three years ago today joined my unit."

"I remember, sir," Lightning nodded.

"Sometimes," he continued, standing, "some things deserve more than memories to remember them by." He held out the package to Lightning, and while he still smiled, his eyes were austere.

Lightning took the gift with a wary glance and pulled back the ties carefully; this cool skepticism swiftly fell away when she beheld what was inside the box.

"A Blaze Edge would be appropriate, I thought. Yours is engraved; it's special," he said, "just like you."

As much as she hated to acknowledge it, Lightning never took compliments well; her face matched her hair at this point.

"Engraved?" she asked after a moment.

"Flick out the blade," Amoda said with a pleased smile and warm eyes.

Doing so, Lightning saw the personalisation clearly: _**White flash; call upon my name**_

As if on cue, Lightning had said she didn't merit such a precious and costly gift; but Amoda quickly quelched that, adamant that she had indeed earned it.

Soon after, Serah returned and the three shared a cup of tea each alongside lively conversation; too soon came the time for Amoda to bid farewell until tomorrow; he returned into the soggy night with a smile yet.

The following morning, however, Amoda wasn't lucky enough to see Lightning's first day on the job with his gift; instead, he found himself home, a victim of a cold resulting from his endeavours in the rain.

Still, he found soon enough the best medicine for congestion: that in spite of herself, Lightning had thought warmly of him the whole day through.


	10. Lightning

_A/N: Written 1 November, 2009._

* * *

_'I like feeling this way,' _she thought, certain of the truth resting in her mind; it would be reassuring if she didn't find it so true.

Certainly any reaction save withdrawal would be alien and unsavory. A reason to be any other way simply wasn't; not with what had been, and would be.

Some might label this as loneliness; completely understandable, such a name, and one that would extenuate certain actions. Talking so intimately to that Fang woman, for example, or apologising to Snow for punching him at Lake Bilge.

But she would never admit to being lonely; she had been estranged for six years after her mother died, and she'd be damned if it couldn't stay that way after Serah died. Fate would have to allow it.

_'And myself, for love…"_

She was younger then. She knew now; you can't run away from yourself.

This voluntary aloofness had drawn her to Fang; she alone understood the plight of the pink-haired woman. They were too similar for this not to be.

That black-haired woman holding a crooked smile and novel accent tossed quick rejoinder with a wink of her eye; but the eye that always remained open was all-seeing. Beneath sun kissed skin, her heart beat to the same drum as the one belonging to the ghostly figure adjacent her.

Their confabulation had been brief, but would not be lonely for long.


	11. Wishes

_A/N: This is the first chapter I intended specifically for "Confabulations"; Gertrude Stein's __Tender Buttons__ inspired the strange style__**.**_

_Written sometime in October._

* * *

Obsession. Obsession with the faded, the rotting--- no, the immortal and the crystallised, consuming like the very curse itself, the one that ends with Doom.

They were here because of that curse. They _were_ the curse, the crystalline plague; from the harbinger of happiness, our destruction.

This. This was the consumptive feeling that drove the voracious desire to create; to create something, even destruction.

It was the glowing, sick green and sterile white that pillaged lives. The rapine, vile ropes, cords that reach and constrict, against human cords that tear and free.

A spectacle of lust, avarice for power, yet still moves to the former. It, nameless fiend, wanted blindly to have _something_, grasping for pulsing warmth in the depths of inky soulless dark.

They had secretly wanted out, as did it.

More heed to the old adage; walk closer, haste to the abyss.


	12. Fang

_A/N: Originally titled 'Burdens', this chapter was began on 26 November, and finished 29 November, 2009_

* * *

With each passing minute, the Strange Ruins of Gran Pulse lived up to their name fourfold. Somehow amidst the wandering, Lightning became lost among the columns, though Fang seemed quite certain as to where they were.

Rather, she hoped the dark-haired woman was; her chest throbbed and burned as once before, when she left for Palompolum with Hope. Something about the Mark had changed then; things didn't bode well for it now. Almost subconsciously she found her hand putting pressure on it, as if that would help.

Fang, who had been walking a few paces ahead, turned mid-sentence and began walking backwards; she caught sight of Lightning and frowned.

"You too now, eh?" She slowed, allowing Lightning to catch up. The pink-haired woman looked at her in surprise.

"What do you mean?"

Fang clapped her on the shoulder. "You know, don't you? The same as Villiers and me, and your sister, too."

The burning flared, and Lightning stopped walking. "What are you talking about, Fang?"

Her tone changed entirely as she realised the seriousness behind Lightning's inquiry. She continued forward a handful of steps.

"The Mark, it tells you when you'll be a Corpse. When the arrows appear and grow, and the eye opens, you're a Corspe." She turned to Lightning, who stood askance her, staring down at the inflamed Mark on her chest; the arrows had changed.

Fang moved closer, and even as she stood behind Lightning, a hand on her shoulder, the pale woman's eyes were still; her expression one of silent, understanding horror as her eyes and mind remained glued to the proclamation of Doom that was a part of herself.

Such an abject stare fang was familiar with; she wore the same face of despair when the epiphany struck her not so long ago. There was nothing she could do, and she hated that reality with every fibre of her being; so she stood motionless as Lightning, her hand gripping the other's shoulder.

They were comrades sharing the same burden; how much longer would it be before this crushed them all beneath it?


	13. Catharsis

_A/N: And now, the end of our conversations! To whoever read this far, thank you, and I hope you enjoyed these._

_Written on 30 November, 2009._

* * *

In the end, what we found was the same. To say we never saw it coming wouldn't be entirely true.

Snow, as fiercely optimistic and hopeful as he was, trembled at the sight of Fate before him. How something so majestic, fantastical, yet so repulsive devoured one completely as it did him was beyond all imagination.

Vanille couldn't have been lying when she said she saw it before; nevertheless, when it came for her, she was as terrified as anyone else.

Sazh, so giving and exhausted, welcomed what came our way. Dajh wouldn't be alone now, and for him, this was indescribable joy.

Hope told me once that it didn't matter if he could handle it, but that he simply had to, regardless. This was fact for all of us, but I'd be damned if it wasn't jarring to hear it from one so young, yet sounded so similar to yourself.

Fang was irate for the longest time; she knew firsthand what awaited all of us, and it tore her apart.

In the end, I watched all of it play out before me; no longer was I a meagre pet of the fal'Cie.

No longer was Cocoon, nor the ill-fated l'Cie.


End file.
